


End Stock

by bluedayblues



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Because of Trauma, But This Is Super Graphic, Chastity Device, Cock Cages, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Eventual Healing, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Trauma, Forced Chastity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obadiah Stane is EVIL, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn with Feelings, Prostate Milking, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slavery is the Norm, Spanking, This World is Messed Up, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is in College, Torture, Violence, Wade Wilson is OOC, Whipping, Worldwide Slavery, graphic depictions of rape, lots of trauma, tony is 17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 22:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedayblues/pseuds/bluedayblues
Summary: MIND THE TAGSObadiah Stane controls Stark Industries for another six months, until the Stark heir comes of age. He finds himself entirely unwilling to relinguish that control. Fortunately, he knows the Stark heir's weak underbelly and sets out to exploit it.AU world where slavery is the norm, and it is MESSED UP.Explicit! Graphic! Read at your own risk!





	End Stock

A crash and the sound of things falling makes Tony shoot out of sleep, getting tangled in his sheets and then landing with a thump on the ground beside his bed. Blinking through bleary eyes, he sees his honorary (ha, honorary, like the man’s got any honor to speak of) uncle standing in his bedroom doorway, a smug little amused smile on his face.

“Clean that mess up,” Obadiah Stane orders, gesturing with a sweep of one hand to Tony’s desk that had been knocked into, all his books and various metal scraps scattered on the floor around it. The frame that housed a picture of Tony’s parents is broken, leaving shards of sharp glass on the floor, and his uncle had better pray that the picture hadn’t been scratched. At first, he thinks that his uncle is speaking to him, telling him to clean up a mess that only his uncle himself could have made. The bastard. Grumbling, he returns to his bed, staring back with a defiance he won’t lose. He’ll clean it up when the man leaves the room, not about to lower himself in front of him. Six more months. Just six more months until Tony reaches adulthood. Six more months until Stane loses his position as head of the company. Six more months until Stane loses any power he's claimed over the Stark heir.

“You’re the one who made the mess,” Tony says.

His uncle’s amused smile doesn’t waver. “Actually, it did.”

Tony follows his uncle’s head nod down to the ground beside his desk, sucking in a breath when he only now catches sight of another person in his bedroom. A man is kneeling there in the broken glass, partially concealed by the wooden frame of the desk, naked and covered in a patchwork of grotesque scars, head bowed as his shaking hands try to gather up glass. His head is shaved and he’s obviously in pain, shoulders tense while he tries to obey his uncle’s order. Tony stumbles out of bed all over again, rushing to help or to at least get the man’s knees off of all that glass, yelling at the slave to stop what he’s doing. The man freezes, head shooting up, glazed, bright blue eyes wide and uncertain as he meets Tony’s eyes only briefly before bowing his head once more. Crouching next to him, Tony places a hand onto his shoulder, wincing at the feel of scarred, rough skin beneath his palm. The man freezes once more at his touch, muscles wound tight, his trembling hands clutching at the few glass shards he’d managed to pick up.

“Come on, get up off the floor.” Tony pulls the slave up, gesturing for him to drop the glass, and then ushers the man toward his bed, telling him to sit. He obeys the order without question, without even raising his head or looking at Tony, placing his butt on the corner of the bed, sitting gingerly and stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back. Tony’s never seen a slave this close before, and the surprise at finding the man in his bedroom hasn’t worn off. His front appears less scarred than his back did, but bruises cover his stomach and chest and trail down, thighs black and blue. And he’s skinny, almost nothing more than mere skin and bones, like a starving torture victim. Which is just what he is, Tony grimly thinks, heart breaking at the thought. He’s older than Tony but doesn’t look as old as his uncle, probably either in his late twenties or early thirties, and he’s not exactly naked after all. A chastity belt encases his soft cock in hard clear plastic, a padlock securing it in place. Thin black leather is wrapped around the base of his balls, so tight that Tony’s nether regions ache in sympathy. Most slaves remain in chastity their whole lives, prostates milked only as needed for health purposes, and it hurts Tony to think of this man – older than him by at least a decade – never having felt the release of an orgasm, his dick never allowed to harden. Hell, Tony masturbates usually at least once per day, sometimes more. How can anyone go their whole life without that basic freedom?

He’s always hated slavery, and here’s clear proof he’s been right all along.

“You bought a slave?” A dumb question, considering, but he needs to know what his uncle’s angle is and he’s not sure how else to start the conversation. The slave on his bed remains stoic and still, the fine trembles in his hands dwindling down. His knees are bloody from the glass he’d knelt on, and a few whip marks on his back had been recent and red, but he doesn’t make any noises and he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the pain in any way besides the tension in his shoulders.

Stane smiles. “I did.”

He needs a little more to go on, here. “Why? We don’t need a slave.”

“This slave has been in the End Stock for over a decade,” Stane starts out, standing and leaning casually against Tony’s door frame. The slave keeps his eyes trained on the ground, and Tony places a hand on his shoulder, legs feeling wobbly enough so that he falls back on the bed beside the slave. In the End Stock for over a decade? That’s insane! How the man is even alive right now is baffling. End Stock slaves were at the bottom of the barrel, the slaves whose masters had returned them one too many times, slaves who were considered too damaged and worthless for general sale. Instead, slaves placed in End Stock were rented out for hours at a time... rented out for a meager amount, five bucks for an hour with them, where people who couldn’t afford to buy a slave for themselves went for a quick fuck. They fed them only enough to survive off of and kept them in a cage, always ready to service the next customer. End Stock slaves weren’t typically allowed to be bought, since they made more money through renting anyway. But Uncle Stane has connections and probably used them to buy this abused, battered man. Unknowingly, his hand tightens on the slave’s shoulder to the point of pain, making the slave wince. Mumbling an apology, Tony rubs his shoulder, ignoring the rough feel of scar tissue and just trying to offer comfort. He’s never wanted a slave before, but if anyone in their house has to own this man, Tony’s suddenly desperate for it to be him. Uncle Stane won’t be nice to this man, and he can’t have bought him for any good reason.

He suddenly fears for this man’s future in their house.

Seeing his stricken expression, Uncle Stane grins. “You’ve been a blight on my life for years now, boy, and it’s been one frustration after another constantly having to mitigate the damage you’ve wrought not only on your reputation but, by association, mine. Your escapades damage the company, Tony. _Your_ company, in the end. For the past eight years of your life, every time you’ve been a disobedient little shit, I’ve gone to the Warehouse. I’ve visited the End Stock, visited this mongrel specifically. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

Tony’s hand pauses and falls away from the man’s shoulder. Oh, God.

“Yes, I see that you do,” Uncle Stane says, eyes crinkled at the sides. “For every issue you’ve caused me, every frustration, I have caused a scar on the man sitting beside you. Every mark you see on him is your doing, boy. It’s illegal to strike you but perfectly within my rights to strike this slave, and after the stunt you pulled yesterday... well, I decided that a more personal approach has become necessary. Slave,” his uncle barks then, causing the man to slouch into himself, hands trembling all over again and Tony wants to reach out and grab them, steady them, tell him everything’s going to be all right. But it’s not, is it? His uncle bought this man, and Tony has no legal right to interfere, no right or power at all. His uncle points to the nearest free wall in Tony’s room, beside the desk, and commands, “Slave, position three. Now.”

The man shoots up and shuffles to the wall. Tony has no idea what position three means but apparently the slave has been well trained, because he places his hands against the wall, head bowed, back arched and ass out. His legs are spread so widely that Tony catches a glimpse of the man’s pink asshole before he looks away and swallows. Uncle Stane approaches the slave from behind, reaching for his belt to unbuckle it and pull it through his belt loops. The sound of the leather sliding out of the older man’s pants clenches something inside Tony, making him feel sick. He’s up in an instant, grabbing for his uncle’s arm, pleading, “Come on, stop. He’s done nothing wrong; I have. I’ll... I’ll fix it. I won’t do it again. I’ll keep my head down until graduation. No more parties. More… discretion. Don’t do this!”

His uncle shakes his arm out from Tony’s grip and tells him to return to his bed, sit, and watch as this slave is punished because of Tony. The slave’s legs are trembling now, but he holds his position steadily, and Tony can’t see his face. He can see only his scarred back and buttocks, his ass already red and bruised. Swallowing again, he tries to apologize to his uncle, voice shaky as he pleads with the man not to do this. He promises not to get into any more fights, to focus more on school and less on partying, to be the model fucking citizen from now on. Uncle Stane takes a moment to consider his words, titling his head as he does, but at the hopeful look on Tony’s face he laughs and shakes his head, saying only that the slave must still be punished for his previous transgression. Slumping, heart pounding, Tony returns to his bed and sits, determined not to disobey again right now and make things worse on the slave. His uncle takes up position at the slave’s back, holding his belt up, and then swings it down hard on the man’s buttocks, striking the left cheek. The slave flinches, but it’s Tony who whimpers, clenching his fists hard. His uncle raises his belt again, bringing it down hard on the right cheek, and then sets into motion a whole flurry of hits, slashing the man’s ass cheeks so hard that flecks of blood come up and strips of skin are torn from his already-bruised flesh. His ass is so red that it’s turning purple, and still his uncle hits him, beating him with the buckle end of his thick leather belt.

THWAP, WHACK, THWAP, WHACK.

Finally, a hit that lands right on the slave’s torn asshole makes the man release his first pained grunt.

Encouraged by the sound, Uncle Stane aims right for his asshole, striking it repeatedly.

“P-please s-stop!” Tony cries when another strike lands.

Uncle Stane pauses, belt poised for another blow. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, God, yes! Stop hitting him!”

“Hm.” Uncle Stane lowers his arm, considering. The slave is trembling, legs shaking so hard it’s a miracle he’s still on his feet, but his ass is still in the air and his back still arched, the model slave awaiting further punishment. Uncle Stane abruptly raises his arm again and releases another flurry of strikes, this time on the back of the man’s thighs, tearing pained whimpers and throaty moans from the slave at every blow. Tony’s eyes are stinging, tears falling, and he pleads himself hoarse, begging his uncle to stop, repeating that he’s learned, he’s learned, fuck all he’s learned.

At last, his uncle throws the belt to the floor. Tony breathes out a relieved breath, only to suck it back in when the man orders with a ragged, breathy moan, “Position one, slut.”

The slave immediately drops to his bruised, bloodied knees, head pressed to the floor and his blistered ass high in the air, legs spread to reveal his asshole. Uncle Stane palms himself through his jeans as the slave gets into position and then, with a laugh, he unzips and releases his hard, aching shaft, glistening precum at the tip. Tony can’t do anything but keep pleading while his uncle lines the tip of his penis up with the asshole he’d just beaten raw. Grunting, Uncle Stane thrusts himself inside the loose hole, nothing but a few drops of precum and blood to slick the way. The slave remains still and quiet when he’s entered, face not visible to Tony as his body begins rocking back and forth from the force of the man pumping into him from behind. The only indication that this act is in anyway painful to him is his hands clenching and unclenching above his head. Uncle Stane is a big man, and his hairy balls slap against the slave’s abused buttocks with every thrust. Grunting, he slaps the slave’s ass cheeks as he pumps into him, making appreciative sounds from above him. “That’s right, slave, take my fucking cock. You know you want it, you fucking slut. Your hole’s so eager, this is all you’re good for, take my penis you fucking cock slut. I’m gonna fuck your slutty asshole until it bleeds, my big dick’s gonna split you open, fucking whore. Such a naughty slut, gonna spank your fat ass ‘til you learn, that’s right, take it, your ass deserves a pounding.”

Tony’s crying openly now, sobbing out apologies.

The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and dirty talk lingers in the air, making Tony feel faint. He’s never seen his uncle like this, never wanted to see this side to the man, and now he doesn’t think he’ll ever get this visual out of his head. This is what happens to slaves. This is what’s happened to this particular slave every day for at least the past ten fucking years. Used, beaten, forced to service cruel masters and never knowing pleasure, only pain after pain after pain. From this angle, he can see his uncle’s penis sliding in and out of the slave’s ass, and he can see the slave’s own soft cock encased by that fucking chastity device, his balls swollen underneath. It’s obvious that his care has been neglected for a long time and his prostate hasn’t been milked in a long while. His balls should not be that swollen, should not look that red and sore. And Tony can’t imagine his uncle milking him. Tony will find a way to do it, even if he has to do it behind his uncle’s back. The slave can’t be comfortable like that.

“Ugh, how many dicks have you serviced, slave? Fuck.” Uncle Stane pounds into him harder, slapping his ass with an open palm. The slave doesn’t respond to the question, but his uncle doesn’t appear to notice, his jeans sliding down his legs as he thrusts himself deeper into the prone body under him. Finally he grunts and mutters, “Take my cum, bitch. Your hole loves swallowing my cream.”

And then he stills, penis pumping hot semen inside the slave’s ass.

Uncle Stane pulls out with a squelching sound and the last few globs of cum squirt onto the slave’s red buttocks. With a relieved sigh, he commands the slave to clean him and watches while the man turns to obey. Tony’s tear tracks match the man’s own, though the slave’s crying as silent as a mouse, his tears ignored and almost casual. His bottom lip is bloody as if he’d bitten through it, but still he stretches his lips around Uncle Stane’s softened penis, tiny licking motions as he sucks the organ clean. Afterward, his uncle stands up, tucks himself in, zips up, and then picks up the bloodied belt, returning it to his waist. He puts the slave into another position – position four, which involves the slave sitting his swollen ass down on the hardwood floor, legs spread and showing off his encased cock – and then walks toward his nephew. Tony flinches back on the bed even though he knows that he can’t do anything to him, repeating in his head that he can’t be touched like that, he can’t be touched like that, he can’t be touched like that. Uncle Stane grins at his reaction, having never been able to inspire such fear before, and simply hands him a key and a pile of papers he’d had stuffed into the pocket in his jacket.

“You’ll be responsible for the slave now,” his uncle explains. Tony clutches the key and paperwork in his hands, staring down at it, listening with hope blossoming inside him. Uncle Stane probably doesn’t realize how much he wants to be responsible for the slave. He wants desperately to take care of the man after he’d suffered such punishment because of him. God, Tony can’t think of any way in which he could make this up to the slave, but it sounds like Uncle Stane is giving him the chance, at least, to try. His uncle continues, “You’re the one responsible for feeding it, milking it, cleaning and tending to it. No one else will bother. If it dies, you’re the only one who will be held accountable. Hopefully this will teach you some modicum of responsibility.”

“I-I’ll do it,” Tony agrees instantly.

His uncle hums under his breath. “Of course you will.” He turns briefly to the slave who’s still sitting on his sore buttocks, trembling and bleeding and staring without expression at the floor with tears leaking without a care from the corners of his eyes. “Slave, I expect you to service both Tony here and myself. You will obey his orders as you would my own. You will also come to my bed every morning at precisely 6:30 and blow me awake. If your lips aren’t around my cock by 6:31, you will receive a whipping. You will also receive a whipping whenever my rebellious nephew gives me even the slightest headache. We have seventeen hired helpers to oversee our house – whenever you see one of them, you will immediately place yourself into position one and invite them to make use of your hole. If I hear that you did not do this, your asshole will be whipped and then you will receive a nightly spanking for the next week. Your asshole needs to be plugged by a dildo every night to keep you loose. If I find that you haven’t plugged yourself, you will spend the next day servicing the household downstairs. Do I need to clarify any of these rules?”

“No, sir,” Tony says at the same time as the slave shakes his head.

Uncle Stane marches over to the slave, grabs his chin hard enough to bruise, and raises the man’s head. “Verbal response, bitch.”

“No, Master sir.” The slave’s voice is a whispered baritone, hoarse and throaty.

“That’s what I thought.” Releasing the slave, Uncle Stane wipes his hand on his jeans and then walks out of the room, reminding Tony that he expects them both down for dinner before he disappears down the hall. Tony sits frozen on the bed for a heartbeat, waiting for the man’s footsteps to fade away, and then nearly throws himself toward the slave. The slave remains in position four, his eyes the only thing reflecting his fear, when Tony places a soft, tentative hand on one of his shoulders, rubbing like he did before. He’s all the sudden crying again, harsh wracking sobs that shake his entire frame, as he rubs the man’s shoulder and repeats apology after apology, vision blurred through his tears. He freezes, hiccupping, when he feels a shaky hand settle on top of his own, petting his hand as his hand pets the slave’s shoulder. Is this slave... is he trying to comfort Tony? Bile rising to his throat at the thought, feeling way too undeserving of the kind touch, Tony yanks his hand away, regretting the sharp action the instant he does it. The slave flinches back, quickly returning his hand to the correct place for position four, which is resting on his thigh.

“A-apologies, Master sir,” the slave says, eyes averted.

“Shit, no!” Tony curses himself out in his head and returns his hand to the slave’s shoulder, rubbing even when the man winces a bit away. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You were just – you were being way too nice to me. God, I suck. I – I did th-this to you, and I’m so fucking sorry. You must hate me. Fuck, _I_ hate me. I knew my uncle was a bastard, but I never thought he’d r-rape someone, or h-hurt you, because of me.”

He’s crying again, damn it.

The slave’s eyes flick over to his own, surprise on his battered face for all of two seconds before he blanks it of emotion. He licks his lip, clearly nervous, and then his hoarse voice comes out as a tentative, hesitant question, “Master sir, please...”

Sensing the hesitation, Tony encourages, “Yeah?”

His eyes are wide, frightened Tony thinks, but earnest when he asks, “Master sir, please don’t be sad.”

The slave flinches then, almost breaking position four to cower because it’s the most he’s spoken in what must be years, and he has no right to ask his master for anything at all. And oh, he’s the dumbest slave alive, to invite another beating so soon after the last one, and while this younger master is wearing no belt, the slave knows that there must be tools for punishment somewhere in the room. Master Stane left him in this room, after all, and he wouldn’t have been left anywhere without the proper equipment for chastisement. There’s probably a whip or a cane or at least a paddle in that closet over there, and this Master Tony could of course at least give him a swift spanking with his hand. He would deserve at least that much. His ass is already a mass of throbbing flesh, bloodied and skin torn, and the slave whimpers a bit in the back of his throat, considering begging. This master seems like he might at least not whip him harder if he begs, and he’d tried so hard to stop his uncle from hurting him. The slave can’t help but want to see this master smile, to see him stop crying for him. He’s not worth his master’s sadness. He has already messed up, already spoken above his station, and he’s only been with his new master for a few minutes.

“Shit, you’re _incredible_ ,” Master Tony breathes out.

Having never heard such a compliment, and having expected pain, the slave’s eyes dart to his master’s, completely blown away by the... admiration?... he sees reflected back at him. This man is looking at his slave as if he’d hung the moon. He’d been called an incredible fuck before, but never just incredible and never in such an honest and open tone of voice. Swallowing, hurting in every way, the slave averts his eyes, wondering if this master is being sarcastic. He knows that he’s not incredible, not deserving of any compliment at all, and he doesn’t understand why the young master has given him one after he’d broken position four, touched him without permission, and then spoken up so disobediently. It has to be sarcasm.

Fortunately, he’s not given much more time to dwell on it. His master stands up and tells him to follow him. The slave immediately gets on his hands and knees, crawling after his master, but the man stops after only a few steps. Tony pulls the slave up on his feet, telling him to walk and to be careful not to step on the glass that’s still on the floor. The slave limps as he walks, wobbling and unaccustomed to being on his feet, his knees and ass throbbing with every step. But he follows, trying to be obedient, his heart pounding against his rib cage as his master leads him from the room and down the hall, in the same direction Master Stane had gone. The slave wants to cry, can feel more tears welling in his eyes, at the thought that he’s being sent to the older master for a whipping, for being so bad so soon. He’ll be sent back to End Stock where he’ll always belong. He doesn’t deserve a master. He doesn’t deserve –

Master Tony enters a room and flicks on the light, gesturing for the slave to enter behind him and shut the door. The slave obeys, a silent sigh of relief escaping him at the sight of the clean, expansive bathroom. He’s not being sent for a whipping after all. Maybe his master wants to be serviced in the bathtub? He hasn’t washed a master in years and hopes the man will be lenient this first time, will allow him to make mistakes to get the hang of it again. When he sees master start the bath, he hurries over and tries to help, but his master shoos him away. Slumping, he stands in place as the tub fills, wondering if he should get into a certain position or if he should just stand still. In the end he stands still, having been given no orders and not wanting to move unless he’s given one. The master removes his clothing down to his boxers, throwing the rest without a care on the floor, and then gestures for the slave to enter the tub. The water is steaming, so it must be warm. It’ll be the first time he’s been in warm water since he was placed in the End Stock... no, not even then. Since he was a little boy, and the slave hesitates for the briefest of seconds, wondering if he’s truly allowed in this clean, warm water. Usually the master gets in first, at least. But his master tells him again to get in, and the slave hurries this time, apologizing for the wait as he goes. If this had been any other master, he would have been spanked or whipped. He puts his legs over the edge of the tub and then slides into the water, whimpering at how the warm water makes his wounds burn. But the burn only lasts a few seconds, and then it actually starts to feel soothing, his muscles relaxing against his will. He sits in the tub, the water up to his stomach, while his master turns the water off and then slides in behind him. He feels his master against his back. Should he present his ass? Ask if he can service him?

But then Master Tony’s hands are suddenly on his back, and he’s rubbing a soft fluffy wash cloth on him, the smell of the soap unusually pleasant as it permeates the air. Gasping, the slave’s head lolls to the side at the surprisingly pleasurable touch, the soap and soft cloth and even softer hands rubbing against his scars and welts, careful and soothing. The water quickly turns brown as his master washes him. He refills the tub twice before the water remains clear, grime and crusted cum and blood having been washed away. The nicest part is when master massages his scalp with his hands and the soap, and the slave almost releases a moan at the action but manages to remain very still, wishing this feeling could last forever. He hasn’t done anything to deserve such a comfort and will surely have to earn it somehow later, but honestly he’s too relaxed to care, leaning against his master’s chest while his hands soothe instead of bring pain. His cock even twitches inside its prison, trying unsuccessfully to rise, and his balls ache at the attention. He’s suddenly glad for the first time that he’s locked into chastity, sure without a shadow of a doubt that his master would have already soothed him into cumming. Penis aching as it strains against the plastic, the slave tries to ignore it, but it’s a pain he hasn’t felt in a long while, and eventually he can’t help but squirm in the water and let out a soft keening moan. He hasn’t been milked in months, and his balls feel almost worse than his ass.

“What’s wrong?” his master asks then, pausing the massage.

The slave moans, tears prickling. “M-master, I’m sorry Master sir.”

“What is it?”

He looks down at his encased penis, whimpering. He would never ask to be taken from chastity, knowing that asking such a thing would only invite another whipping and this time probably a whipping against his genitals. But Master has been so kind, so wonderful, and he hasn’t been milked for so long that surely it will begin to cause damage. Wondering if maybe this time he might actually be milked, hoping against hope that maybe this master might take pity on him, allow him the painful process of pressing against his prostate until the cum releases from his balls, the slave decides to go for it. “Thank you, Master sir, thank you so much for your gentle, kind touches, Master. But Master sir, this slave hasn’t b-been milked for a couple of months, Master sir.”

Master Tony makes a noise of understanding. “You need to cum.”

“This slave would appreciate a m-milking, Master sir. _Oh_!” The slave swallows another cry, his balls throbbing even harder. Master had actually just reached down and rolled his balls in his hand, had deigned to touch his slave’s balls, feather light and fleeting and making it hurt all the more. Master releases the water and stands then, pulling the shaking slave to his feet and then stepping out of the tub. It hurts to walk, and the slave has to shuffle instead of make full blown steps, his balls so sore that each touch against his thighs sends shooting pain into them. Master dries himself off and redresses and then, once again catching the slave by surprise, takes an unused towel and pats down the slave, drying him with soft, soothing strokes. Now clean, his wounds bleed sluggishly, and red stains the towel, causing the slave to whimper and apologize, voice breathy and panicked. He’s asked for a milking and tainted his master’s towel, on top of everything wrong he’d done before the bath. His mistakes are piling up, higher than ever, and he’s almost ready to throw himself into a punishment position and beg for a good smacking. Something about this master is getting to him, making all his defenses crumble. He never would have asked Master Stane for a milking. But Master Stane never would have made him feel good, and he never would have wrapped such a soft, fluffy towel around his shoulders. Master Tony tells him to hold onto the towel and keep it around his shoulders and then leads him from the bathroom, back to his bedroom. Once there, he gestures for the slave to get on the bed as he rummages through his closet. The slave feels apprehensive as he obeys, clutching the towel in shaking hands as he gets into position one, red ass cheeks high in the air and face pressed into soft blankets. At least his punishment will take place on a soft bed instead of the floor. Or will master fuck his hole instead of beat him? A fucking makes more sense; he’d have been put on the floor for a whipping.

“Okay so, this is probably going to hurt –”

The slave squeezes his eyes shut at the word _hurt_ , awaiting the swish of a cane.

Instead, there’s a flurry of motion behind him, something set on the bed, and then master’s soft hand petting the slave’s smooth scalp. The slave whimpers at the contact, buttocks clenching in fear, wondering when the pain will come and why it’s preceded by such a gentle rubbing. His head feels sensitive and he nudges it into his master’s palm, unable to stop himself. His master shushes him, voice soft and guilt-ridden when he says, “Fuck, I didn’t mean – look, just lay on your stomach, okay? And here, put your head on a pillow, there you go. Just relax. I’m gonna wrap up your – your cuts and stuff, okay? But I’m using antiseptic spray to make sure they heal all right. That’s what’s gonna hurt, not – shit, I’m not gonna hurt you like my uncle. I promise, I’m not ever gonna do that.”

The slave is now on his stomach, head propped up on a pillow, uncomfortable in this strange position but determined to remember it. He whispers another apology, mindful of every wrong move he’s made today, wishing there was something he could do to be a good slave for this gentle master. But he knows there’s no way he’ll get to stay with this master. Master Stane requires servicing, plus all the hired help around the house. He allows silent tears to fall while Master Tony bandages the cuts on his ass and thighs, the sting hardly what he’d consider painful. The master talks while he works, his voice never rising in anger or harsh like most, hands rubbing gently every now and then, soothing. The slave tries to listen to the words; it’s probably important... but it’s all so soothing, and he feels oddly safe here on this bed in the presence of this master, being taken care of for the first time. So many scars riddle his body, leftover from his many and varied punishments over the years, none of them treated kindly afterward like this. His master removes his towel and goes to work on the few recent scrapes along his back, then turns him over and bandages up his knees and the cuts along his legs. He probably looks like a mummy, but his aches feel numb and his master’s voice drones ever forward, like a lullaby. He drifts off, one hand stretched out toward his master.

He’s in his cage in the End Stock, swollen ass raised against the bars. Four masters surround him, penises pressing in from all sides. One is drilling away at his asshole through the bars, muttering obscenities. A much thicker organ slides past his lips, fucking his mouth. His hands work the remaining two masters, muscles straining to continue jerking their dicks without stopping. The one in his mouth quickens his pace before pumping thick wads of cum down the back of the slave’s throat, the man above him ordering him to swallow every drop. He tries, swallowing fast and hard, sure that this is the only drink he’ll be given today, but a drop leaks out the corner of his mouth when the man pulls his cock away.

“Fucking bitch spilled my cream,” the man complains, hitting the cage.

The one fucking his asshole grunts, pounding in hard. “Hear that, slut? Think you deserve a spankin’ for spilling his cream?”

“Gonna whip that ass raw,” another says, eagerly.

“’M sorry, Master sirs. Please, please whip me,” he begs, choking on the words. It excites the men who still have hard shafts, and they all three speed up, one thrusting his penis deeper and harder into the slave’s torn asshole and the other two pumping their hips hard, penises flying through his fists.

“Yeah? Wanna have that ass smacked?” The man in front of him asks.

“Yes, Master sir. Please, I’ve been a naughty slave. Please smack my naughty ass.” The begging always speeds things along, and sure enough the man who came into his mouth is hard again, penis bobbing up and pointing proudly out. The one in his ass squirts out his cum in hard spurts, penis softening inside him, and the other two slap his hands away and jerk themselves to completion in mere seconds, white jizz shooting onto his back and onto the bars of the cage that surrounds him. And then they remove him from the cage, dragging him out and ordering him into his least favorite punishment position, bent at the waist and holding onto his ankles. The struggle to remain upright through the whipping is difficult. They’re all taking turns using their belts, slapping him on the ass and egging each other on. One tells him to start counting, and he does, voice hoarse and stuttering through the pain.

“One, Master sirs! Th-thank youuu.” He moans, his ass red.

The belt strikes down again, leaving a welt. “T-two, Master sirs. Thank you!”

One strike whaps against his swollen balls, tearing a scream from his throat. The men laugh and hit him there again, over and over, until they’re all idly jerking their cocks to attention all over again. One man sits in a chair and bends him over his lap for a spanking, hand falling against his heated flesh. Another rams his stiff rod into the slave’s mouth while he’s being smacked, hips pumping against his face. The sounds of flesh smacking together is the only indication he has that the other two masters are masturbating while they watch him be face fucked and spanked over one man’s lap. The man’s hand comes down again and again, his ass cheeks jiggling from the force of each blow. He’s whimpering through the penis in his mouth, wishing for the punishment to end, wishing for their cocks to gush again so they’ll be sated and leave. He’d scream if he could, the pain in his buttocks extreme, the hand slapping down and walloping him good and hard.

“You been a bad fucking slave.”

“Take your punishment. Your ass needs a good smacking.”

“Bad, bad slave...”

The slave is whimpering, eyes clenched shut, and Tony makes his way back over to the bed to check on him. He’s been sleeping for over an hour, and Tony let him rest, sure that it’d be good for him. Now he’s not so sure, because the slave looks pained, his face scrunched and his moans scratchy. Sure that he’s having a bad dream, Tony settles into the bed and gathers the man into his arms, shushing him and rubbing his shoulder. At the touch, the slave jerks awake, gasping out apologies that Tony immediately soothes away. He whimpers again, eyes wide, mumbling about being a bad slave.

“Shh, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Tony says, desperate to cling to that lie.

In truth, he’s not sure _he’ll_ ever be okay after this, let alone the beaten down _person_ who’d actually suffered through it. Will likely keep suffering through it, if Stane has his way. And for the next six months, Stane’s pretty much guaranteed to get it.

Tony’s hold on the man tightens, careful not to irritate his wounds. Too many wounds. Too many more coming.

Fuck.


End file.
